Page 66 of Single Mom's Bodyguards
“I remember everything.”
She goes quiet. Still. A heavy sigh breaks the silence. “I miss that version of us.”
“Me too.”
She tilts her face toward the sky. “But I like this version more.” Her eyes go soft now. Not afraid. Not tense. “I’m still figuring it out. Being with people who give a shit. Who stay. Who don’t flinch when I fall apart.”
“You’re not falling apart.”
“Not tonight.”
I hold her gaze. “Not ever. Not if I can help it.”
The wind picks up again. She shivers, so I take her hand and lead her to the sofa without another word. She curls into my side the second we sit. No hesitation. Just a soft shift of weight as she pulls the throw blanket across our legs and rests her cheek against my shoulder.
The city stretches out below us like a glittering sprawl of possibility. But up here? It’s quiet. No cameras. No lines to rehearse. Just sky and breath and the thread of warmth between our thighs.
She exhales against my neck, breath warm. “You always made me feel safe.”
“I’m glad.”
She shifts, tilts her head, looks up at me through lashes that catch moonlight like they’re coated in silver. “You still do.” Then she kisses me.
She feels like home.
Her lips are soft. Familiar in a way that makes my chest ache. Like I’ve been waiting years to feel this again but didn’t know how badly I missed it until she pressed her mouth to mine. Something deep inside settles in my bones.
I kiss her back slowly, savoring it. One hand in her hair, the other resting on her thigh over the blanket. She moves closer, swinging one leg across my lap until she’s straddling me—body to body, warmth to warmth. I run my hands down her back, under the sweater, tracing the warm skin at her waist. Her hips roll once, instinct.
And that’s it. That’s all it takes for both of us to break a little.
She kisses me deeper now. Hungrier. And I let her. Let her sink into me. She leans back just enough to pull her sweater over her head, hair falling in soft waves around her shoulders. She’s not wearing a bra.
My breath catches. She watches my reaction, smiling shyly—Bailey, always brave and a little bashful, even when she’s in control. I trace her ribs, then her breasts, fingertips reverent. “You’re so fucking beautiful.”
“You’ve seen me cry in gym clothes.”
“And still,” I murmur, “most beautiful thing I’ve ever touched.”
She laughs—low, breathy, and damn near lethal—then tugs my shirt over my head. Her fingers skim down my chest. I shiver. She leans in again, and her lips find my neck. My shoulder. My collarbone. I grip her hips, guiding her down against me, friction perfect even with clothes still between us.
“I want you,” she whispers. “Slow.”
“You’ve got me. All night.”
She reaches down and undoes the button on my jeans. My breath catches in my throat as her fingers trail beneath the denim, her eyes locked on mine the whole time. “Okay?”
I nod, not trusting my voice.
She shifts, lifts up just enough to help me slide my jeans and boxers down over my hips. I hiss when the air hits my skin—cool and sharp after all that heat. Her dress pants are next. Unzipped and pushed down her hips, past her thighs, until she’s bare in my lap. Skin on skin. Warm and so fucking intoxicating I almost forget how to move.
She wraps her arms around my neck. “You good?”
I smile, palm her hips, and guide her forward. “Better than good.” I line myself up with her and let her sink down onto me, inch by inch, until I’m buried deep inside her. We breathe out at the same time.
It’s not fast.
It’s not hard.
